


A Glass Jar

by IAmWhelmed



Series: Origami Birds [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Son of Batman (2014)
Genre: Amnesia, Batfam wants their baby bat back, Damian Has Amnesia, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Has Friends, Damian has a loving foster family, Detective Conan AU, Gen, Hurt Damian Wayne, Sort Of, Worried Batfamily (DCU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24705046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhelmed/pseuds/IAmWhelmed
Summary: Damian-- going by the name Chris-- contemplates the scattered fragments of his memories as he enjoys the comforts of a normal civilian life.Nightwing and Red Robin discuss the next step in locating their missing baby brother.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne & Original Character(s), Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Series: Origami Birds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786054
Comments: 12
Kudos: 153





	A Glass Jar

“Christian~!”

He winced. The sun was too bright, and he’d been up late reading Confucius. The kids-- and they were kids, and he was not-- hadn’t left him alone all evening, not until Johanna had ushered them out the door when she could tell he was getting antsy. She was better with them, despite being their age, like an older sister, or a mother. Then again, that would make him the father and he was in no habit of adopting like-- like who?

A memory, they were growing with no context every day. He had a collection of them in a jar he kept in his mind, folded in creases he couldn’t unfold yet, shaped like birds of red and green and yellow. Some, the ones that weren't memories so much as they were sick, churning feelings in his stomach that came with a taste of nostalgia like burning acid in his throat at the oddest moments, were black little origami birds. They were fewer than the rest, but they sat at the bottom of the jar, and would until he’d unfolded the rest somehow, and even then only when he decided to take the risk of smoothing out their ridges. His nose wrinkled. “Liv…”

He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, and behind them he could finally see a girl with a bright smile and chestnut hair, wavy and long, though thin. Her eyes twinkled with affection in the way that always made his heart feel full, maya blue with dark eyelashes. “Breakfast is ready. If I let you leave with Professor Bolvin without feeding you, I know he’ll fill you kids up with junk food again!” Well, that was going to happen regardless, because Johanna’s father was a spineless, caring man who broke down every time their black hole of a friend Emrik teared up and begged for food like they hadn’t all watched him stumble out of his house upon pickup with arms full of snacks. So even if she did feed him now, they’d be stopping later no doubt.

Instead of saying any of this, he grumbled and sat up, rubbing at his eyes. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

Liv leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his head, and despite the smile that was fighting at his lips, another blackbird appeared in his jar, along with the feeling that he wasn’t used to receiving affection. He stuffed that troublesome bird into the lowest pits of his glass jar mind and pulled himself out of bed.

Sometimes he wondered how long it would take for his real family to come get him, and other times he wondered if they were even looking. The small flashes he’d gotten of his memories, through deja vu and nightmares and motion memory, like that one time he broke some perp’s hand when he got loose at the station, it all implied he’d had a less than pleasant life. There was so much blood in what little he did remember, lots of scolding, lots of voices that made his stomach sink. Voices that felt like Liv or her dad, but sounded so different, and hit so hard and said things he couldn’t hear but hurt nonetheless. When he did get his memories back, when he remembered his name, he’d have to go back. He knew that. Liv’s warm arms around him as he claimed her lap were temporary, and he felt each moment slipping with each Jeopardy question that passed. He knew a lot of it, too much for somebody his age, more than Liv or even her father.

His name was temporary. Chris, in honor of Liv’s favorite writer, Agatha Christie. He’d taken their last name Tatham, and that was temporary, as was her father’s dwindling patience with him in their home. “OW!”

Abner Tatham rubbed his fist, and Chris rubbed the spot where he’d clocked him over the head. “That’s for making your sister wait.”

“For making you wait is more like it.”

The man was midweight with a fluffy mustache and a low-fuse attitude, caught typically with a newspaper in one hand and a coffee in the other, as he was then. He straightened out the pages and sipped at his half-empty mug, while Chris took the seat next to him at their little square table. Abner glanced at him with a scowl that didn’t reach his eyes. “She made your favorite, ya little runt.”

“Dad! He’s a normal height for his age! Leave him alone.” Liv set a plate at the table in front of her father, then in front of Chris. “You’re just cranky because you haven't closed that case yet.”

Chris smirked. Abner’s eye twitched. “You spend a week solving a locked room murder case and get back to me.” He didn’t much care for the son that had been thrust upon him at his daughter’s demand, but he hadn’t kicked him into the foster care system yet. The BPD had the fortunate, or rather unfortunate depending on who you asked, chance of taking down a small drug ring near Mission Beach, Bayard City. To the surprise of Abner, who led the investigation, and every supporting officer, there had been a little boy with a horribly bandaged head, handcuffed to one of the visible pipes that ran throughout the small shack. They’d taken him back to the police department, and that was the first time Liv had laid eyes on him. She’d only come to drop her father’s lunch off since she’d had the sneaking suspicion he’d forgotten to eat, but she didn’t leave empty-handed.

Liv shot him a smile, dropping some blueberry pancakes on his plate. Chris breathed in the smell of fresh doughy goodness and the fruity scent of berry, savoring not just the way it warmed his chest, but the way no little birds flitted through his mind, black or otherwise. He took a bite, and found it every bit as delicious and warm as the hug and kiss Liv planted on his head before she took the seat beside him.

* * *

It had been months, literal, actual months. Four or five to be exact. He’d been counting, as he was sure Bruce was, too. Not a trace of Damian, not a word from any detectives, not a call from a (for once thankfully) snooping reporter, not even a sign of their youngest. Tim and Bruce had been near glued to their computers, running through the clues, not that there seemed to be any. There’d been no sign of him at the bottom of the waterbed or otherwise, so they’d traced the stream he’d fallen into, and that only led them to a handful of cities where he could have been anywhere. But he had to have been hurt. Or something. Because he hadn’t sent them any flags to come pick him up, or called them to chew their ears off for leaving him alone for so long. Jason had stopped by the spot Damian disappeared more than he’d ever admit to any of them, scoured the power plant in a desperate attempt to envision what might have happened that night, because Damian had rushed in there alone, again, and the pain of living with the fact that none of them had been fast enough was eating away at every single one of them. 

“He’s dead,” Jason had commented in the most maddeningly unhelpful tone. “Or he doesn’t wanna be found. Either way, you were too late again, Bats.” He thought that maybe that same line was on some sick replay in Bruce’s mind, complete with a bone-chilling skip and screech, because he hadn’t ever seen the man so distraught. They hadn’t told Talia until a few weeks ago, when the idea that _Damian may never come home, safe_ had grown to be too much of a burden to not share. She was stubborn, just like he and Bruce were; Damian wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be. So they got calls from her, regularly, updates on sightings some of her men had reported, sightings that they weren’t sure were actually of Damian, but it gave them hope. They had to hope. Poison Ivy or no, Damian was too stubborn to go down like that, with one smack to the face, one fall that wasn’t even fatal, just painful. There hadn’t been any blood, even, and Damian had survived a loss of a bucket’s equivalent. Aside from the obvious signs of a scuffle, and evidence of Damian’s tracking device’s last marked location, there was no indication Damian had even been there.

“He’s not dead.” He blinked, not sure he’d heard Red Robin correctly. They’d taken patrol, because Batman was following up on one of Talia’s leads. That left Gotham unprotected, and even if Robin had fallen, they would not be responsible for the loss of another child in this damn city. “The signs don’t add up. Something else is going on here.”

“Is it your gut telling you that?”

Red Robin smirked. “Maybe. But I know your gut’s telling you the same. Bruce feels it too, I know it.”

He nodded. “No, we can’t give up hope. The whole world is searching for Damian Wayne.”

“We’re just the only ones looking for Robin.” Red Robin shrugged, then stood. Their view from one of the Gotham skyscrapers would have daunted even the bravest of daredevils, but the sparkling nightlights and the shadows casted by the moon were a creature comfort to those who rose with the night. The lights of the city brightened Red Robin’s skin, even as his eyes darkened behind his mask. “No, Hood is right. He’s either hiding, or…”

“...Or somebody has him.” Yeah, that had occurred to them, too. Human traffickers, drug lords, kidnappers, serial killers, the works always ran through his mind, because trained assassin or not, Damian was a ten year old kid, and even he could get overpowered by enough manpower. It occurred to him that even if they did get Damian back, there was a chance he wouldn’t be the same, that their Damian really did die that night and he’d be a walking shadow of himself, and the thought made his blood run cold. But, they could fix him, help him, if they could just get him home. “Any ideas?”

“There were five different cities Damian could have ended up in. Two of us should stay in Gotham, at least, but--”

“-- But we could start there. Do a deeper dive than we did before.”

“And we could get help.”

Nightwing crossed his arms and smiled, and that was easier than it had been in awhile. “All right, Sherlock, who do you have in mind?”

* * *

“Ahh! It’s so huge!”

“It's a castle! It’s a real castle!”

“I bet you a king and queen live here, too!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Emrik, Lucie, Clement-- they were such children, too excitable, too imaginative. He loathed being the same age as them, presumably. According to Abner, there was some guess work done about his age, they’d just settled on 10. They piled out of the car and the next minute? They were all squawking like a bunch of stooges with hardly half a skull to knock together. Ooo’ing and Aah’ing at a hotel they weren’t even staying at, just because it looked like a rectangular keep from the 12th century. “It’s just a hotel.”

“Yes, but it is an expensive one, no?” Johanna, ever the unhelpful instigator and encourager of their hoard of simple-minded gremlins, smiled at him from the side. “Surely it’s been home to the rich, and a place for them to act like the kings and queens they think they are.

“--Tt.”

“Come along, children, the ticket booth is this way!” Professor Bolvin was using his authoritarian voice, the kind that was so truly laughable coming from him, even to a bunch of ten-year-olds. The man was lanky and hardly had a prick of facial hair to call his own, no matter how he tried to claim the three bits of hair at his chin was shadow-- or more laughably, a beard. He clapped his hands twice, and the other three children whined.

“Professor, can we stay in the hotel?”

“We live twenty minutes away and you want to stay in a hotel?”

“Well…”

They all turned to follow Bolvin’s guiding hand, and Chris wasn’t far behind, Johanna only a foot behind him. She had her father’s sandy hair color, but the rest of her must have been her mother, from the careful fold of her hands behind her back to the quiet, snarky nature of her voice. She was more like him than the other kids, more mature. He had a few guesses why, none of which she’d admit to. “Christian… your memories, how are they?”

“As vague as they have always been, why?”

She hummed. “My father has been looking into hypnotherapy. I was wondering if you’d be a test subject.”

“Like I always am? I’m not the man’s guinea pig.” Though he may as well have been. Bolvin was a psychiatrist, a good one, and he knew that the man was only trying to help him reclaim his past, but the exercises were tiring, if not downright embarrassing. “I’ve been taking the damn vitamins every day, you know. Next he’s gonna start sticking me with needles to test for low blood pressure.” She pinched him, and he hissed.

“My father is your best hope of regaining your memories. A little gratitude goes a long way.”

“I’m grateful, I’m grateful!” He waved a defensive hand, and hers backed off. “I’m just… not so sure any of this is working.”

“Or you’re scared of what those memories of yours may tell.” She gave him a knowing smile, and he winced. She always did that, and he guessed that her annoying gift would serve her well in her father’s field once she was old enough, but for now? She was the bane of his existence. “Rest assured, if your situation reveals itself to be less than ideal, my father will stop at nothing to see you stay in your temporary home.” His temporary home, with Liv, and Abner, with these stupid kids bothering him every day. He glanced ahead, where the rest of their friends were trudging along. Emrik had started pulling excitedly on Bolvin’s sleeve, chunky face filled with baby fat and a little extra splitting with a wide grin as Bolvin struggled to keep himself upright. Lucie had a spring in her step, and she spread her arms to take in the billowing air as she skipped forward, followed closely by Clement, who was excitedly bouncing up and down as he walked. Lucie turned her head over her shoulder, and her big blue eyes told him that this was nice, that he should smile, so he did.

“My temporary home, huh…”

An origami bird, folded to perfection, fluttered by the mind’s eyes and landed atop a sierra of prismatic copies. This bird was white.

**Author's Note:**

> Image source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/353884483203365816/
> 
> This is kind of.... a mix of continuities? I picture this Damian as the movie Damian, at least pre-Batman vs Robin, but it's also following the super sons comics, which means I'm including his relationship with Jon, but Bruce hasn't died, Nightwing has not been Batman, DAMIAN hasn't died, so it's kinda my own continuity lol but I'm including tags from the places I've pulled my knowledge from-- and my love of Damian from lmao


End file.
